Title: A Ghost Story and others
Author: Lafcadio Hearn
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Language: English
Date first posted: August 2006
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A Ghost Story and others

by

Lafcadio Hearn

A Ghost Story

There are certain beliefs as old as the world, that have
encountered more or less scepticism in all ages, and nevertheless
endure to-day,--beliefs based upon observations so excellently
authenticated, and so strongly interresembling, whether made before
Christ or in the present age of rail-roads and electricity, that the
admission of their testimony in the great trial which metaphysical
theories are undergoing in the court of Common Sense, cannot be
refused. We refer especially to the belief in warnings,--premonitions
of death,--wraiths,--doubles,--all those singular superstitions
connected with sudden decease, all those apparitions of inexplicable
voices by which people at vast distances from home are weirdly
informed of the loss of friends, or relatives, to whom they are
particularly attached. An immense number of extraordinary books have
been written upon this subject; and an enormous bulk of modern
testimony collected in regard to it,--so much, indeed, that people
have long since become more or less weary of the theme, the more so
because every new statement obtained bears a tiresome resemblance to
others familiar from childhood. Nevertheless, while we have all read
about such things, very few of us believe in them; and although there
are probably few adult readers of this paper who have not
occasionally met with some one claiming to have had ghostly
experience, there are also few who are willing to place credence in
such assertions.

Nor does it matter much how generally trustworthy in other
respects the person who makes the statement may be; in this
particular matter either his veracity is apt to be doubted, or the
soundness of his mental condition called into question. Finally, the
numerous scientific explanations of mental and sensory delusions have
been received with zeal by the public at large, who find in them a
ready apology for summary condemnation of all weird experiences as
totally unworthy of serious attention. It is possible, folks are apt
to say, it is quite possible such things have appeared to certain
persons, but only as musical or visual spectra--the results of
diseased conditions of the nervous system.

But it would seem, from the tenor of a curious recent article in
the London Daily Telegram, that certain forms of hallucination not
only demand, but are actually receiving, a thorough and totally novel
scientific investigation. The investigators, indeed, are men who do
not believe in ghosts; but they are also men unwilling to accept the
cut-and-dried explanation of all visual or auditory hallucinations by
nervous disorder. They do not seem to think, for example, that an
unhealthy condition of mind could alone account for the following
story related by Lieut. Col. Jones of Her Majesty's Service, which is
but one of a thousand equally well-authenticated narratives:

"In 1845 I was stationed with my regiment at Moulmein, in Burmah.
In those days there was no direct mail, and we were dependent upon
the arrival of sailing vessels for our letters, which sometimes
arrived in batches, and occasionally we were months without any news
from home. On the evening of the 24th of March, 1845, I was, with
others, dining at a friend's house, and when sitting in the veranda
after dinner, with the other guests, in the middle of a conversation
on some local affairs, I all at once distinctly saw before me the
form of an open coffin with a favorite sister of mine, then at home,
lying in it apparently dead. I naturally ceased talking, and every
one looked at me with astonishment, and asked what was the matter. I
mentioned, in a laughing manner, what I had seen, and it was looked
upon as a joke. I walked home later with an officer very much my
senior--the late Major Gen. Geo. Briggs, retired, Madras Artillery,
then Capt. Briggs--who renewed the subject, and asked whether I had
received any news as to my sister's illness. I said no, and that my
last letters from home were dated some three months prior. He asked
me to make a note of the circumstance, as he had before heard of such
occurrences. I did so, and showed him the entry I made opposite the
day of the month in an almanac. On the 17th of May following I
received a letter from home announcing my sister's death as having
taken place on that very day--viz.: the 24th of March, 1845."

Our readers are doubtless familiar with numberless stories of a
similar character; and probably most persons who do not believe such
things could occur except by fortuitous coincidences, doubt because
they have not seen. Now the scientific and impartial writer of the
article in the English journal before us, well remarks that although
millions die and "make no sign,"--although such experiences must be
comparatively rare, we must also remember that other mental powers,
of whose existence there can be no doubt whatever, are equally rare.
For instance there are persons capable of powerfully impressing or
influencing other persons without touching or speaking to them; and
there are persons peculiarly sensitive to the unexpressed will of
strong minds. Both powers are uncommon--that of conveying impression
or of receiving it; and (leaving all theories of mesmerism out of the
question) there must even in such cases be a bond of affection or
sympathy,--"a moral relationship" as the editor calls it,--between
the two. Under such circumstances it is not impossible that mind
should affect mind to an extraordinary degree; and perhaps the
narrative of the English officer might be accepted on the theory that
his dying sister thought of her absent brother so intently as to form
that image in his mind which he saw. How far the influence of mind
may thus reach is certainly still unknown; science is obliged to
confess its inability to tell us precisely what mind is. The other
day, in discussing the subject of electrical phenomena in human
beings, we stated on tolerably good authority, that only two or three
cases of such electrical prodigies are recorded by physiologists.

That they have been seen and studied is beyond dispute; and while
we grant the existence of mysterious powers of one sort on such rare
testimony, we cannot reasonably reject the existence of other powers
still more incomprehensible, but equally well authenticated.

It is easy enough to recognize the power of mind upon mind, when
the recipient and the deliverer of the impression are in each other's
presence; but it is difficult to comprehend the extension of such
influence half-way round the world,--unless we force ourselves to
accept a theory like that old Greek story about threads of invisible
gold spun by the Fates, which bind lives to lives without ever
snapping, till the scissors of death cuts them. Yet again we must
believe in other things quite as hard to understand! Who can
comprehend the specialized sense by which a hound follows a zig-zag
trail for miles through woods, fields, prairies, or even through the
crowded streets of a great city, where the trail is crossed by others
innumerable and equally fresh or fresher?

If the faculty of conveying or receiving such singular impressions
as those related in Lieut.-Col. Jones' narrative, is only an example
of some specialized sense, we might suppose that in the course of
time such powers would become more generally developed in mankind;
and the evolutional theory again presents us with startling
possibilities,--the realization of old mythological fancies,--the
reading of secret thought,--the silent exchange of sympathy across
the face of the world,--and even the final annihilation of deception
by the absolute impossibility of veiling a purpose or of concealing a
hate.

The Cedar Closet

It happened ten years ago, and it stands out, and ever will stand
out, in my memory like some dark, awful barrier dividing the happy,
gleeful years of girlhood, with their foolish, petulant sorrows and
eager, innocent joys, and the bright, lovely life which has been mine
since. In looking back, that time seems to me shadowed by a dark and
terrible brooding cloud, bearing in its lurid gloom what, but for
love and patience the tenderest and most untiring, might have been
the bolt of death, or, worse a thousand times, of madness. As it was,
for months after "life crept on a broken wing," if not "through cells
of madness," yet verily "through haunts of horror and fear." O, the
weary, weary days and months when I longed piteously for rest! when
sunshine was torture, and every shadow filled with horror
unspeakable; when my soul's craving was for death; to be allowed to
creep away from the terror which lurked in the softest murmur of the
summer breeze, the flicker of the shadow of the tiniest leaf on the
sunny grass, in every corner and curtain-fold in my dear old home.
But love conquered all, and I can tell my story now, with awe and
wonder, it is true, but quietly and calmly.

Ten years ago I was living with my only brother in one of the
quaint, ivy-grown, red-gabled rectories which are so picturesquely
scattered over the fair breadth of England. We were orphans,
Archibald and I; and I had been the busy, happy mistress of his
pretty home for only one year after leaving school, when Robert Draye
asked me to be his wife. Robert and Archie were old friends, and my
new home, Draye's Court, was only separated from the parsonage by an
old gray wall, a low iron-studded door in which admitted us from the
sunny parsonage dawn to the old, old park which had belonged to the
Drayes for centuries. Robert was lord of the manor; and it was he who
had given Archie the living of Draye in the Wold.

It was the night before my wedding day, and our pretty home was
crowded with the wedding guests. We were all gathered in the large
old-fashioned drawing-room after dinner. When Robert left us late in
the evening, I walked with him, as usual, to the little gate for what
he called our last parting; we lingered awhile under the great
walnut-tree, through the heavy, somber branches of which the
September moon poured its soft pure light. With his last good-night
kiss on my lips and my heart full of him and the love which warmed
and glorified the whole world for me, I did not care to go back to
share in the fun and frolic in the drawing-room, but went softly
upstairs to my own room. I say "my own room," but I was to occupy it
as a bedroom to-night for the first time. It was a pleasant south
room, wainscoted in richly-carved cedar, which gave the atmosphere a
spicy fragrance. I had chosen it as my morning room on my arrival in
our home; here I had read and sang and painted, and spent long, sunny
hours while Archibald was busy in his study after breakfast. I had
had a bed arranged there as I preferred being alone to sharing my own
larger bedroom with two of my bridesmaids. It looked bright and cozy
as I came in; my favorite low chair was drawn before the fire, whose
rosy light glanced and flickered on the glossy dark walls, which gave
the room its name, "The Cedar Closet." My maid was busy preparing my
toilet table, I sent her away, and sat down to wait for my brother,
who I knew would come to bid me good-night. He came; we had our last
fireside talk in my girlhood's home; and when he left me there was an
incursion of all my bridesmaids for a "dressing-gown reception."

When at last I was alone I drew back the curtain and curled myself
up on the low wide window-seat. The moon was at its brightest; the
little church and quiet churchyard beyond the lawn looked fair and
calm beneath its rays; the gleam of the white headstones here and
there between the trees might have reminded me that life is not all
peace and joy--that tears and pain, fear and parting, have their
share in its story--but it did not. The tranquil happiness with which
my heart was full overflowed in some soft tears which had no tinge of
bitterness, and when at last I did lie down, peace, deep and perfect,
still seemed to flow in on me with the moonbeams which filled the
room, shimmering on the folds of my bridal dress, which was laid
ready for the morning. I am thus minute in describing my last waking
moments, that it may be understood that what followed was not
creation of a morbid fancy.

I do not know how long I had been asleep, when I was suddenly, as
it were, wrenched back to consciousness. The moon had set, the room
was quite dark; I could just distinguish the glimmer of a clouded,
starless sky through the open window. I could not see or hear
anything unusual, but not the less was I conscious of an unwonted, a
baleful presence near; an indescribable horror cramped the very
beatings of my heart; with every instant the certainty grew that my
room was shared by some evil being. I could not cry for help, though
Archie's room was so close, and I knew that one call through the
death-like stillness would bring him to me; all I could do was to
gaze, gaze, gaze into the darkness. Suddenly--and a throb stung
through every nerve--I heard distinctly from behind the wainscot
against which the head of my bed was placed a low, hollow moan,
followed on the instant by a cackling, malignant laugh from the other
side of the room. If I had been one of the monumental figures in the
little churchyard on which I had seen the quiet moonbeams shine a few
hours before I could not have been more utterly unable to move or
speak; every other faculty seemed to be lost in the one intent strain
of eye and ear. There came at last the sound of a halting step, the
tapping of a crutch upon the floor, then stillness, and slowly,
gradually the room filled with light--a pale, cold, steady light.
Everything around was exactly as I had last seen it in the mingled
shine of the moon and fire, and though I heard at intervals the harsh
laugh, the curtain at the foot of the bed hid from me whatever
uttered it. Again, low but distinct, the piteous moan broke forth,
followed by some words in a foreign tongue, and with the sound a
figure started from behind the curtain--a dwarfed, deformed woman,
dressed in a loose robe of black, sprinkled with golden stars, which
gave forth a dull, fiery gleam, in the mysterious light; one lean,
yellow hand clutched the curtain of my bed; it glittered with jeweled
rings;--long black hair fell in heavy masses from a golden circlet
over the stunted form. I saw it all clearly as I now see the pen
which writes these words and the hand which guides it. The face was
turned from me, bent aside, as if greedily drinking in those
astonished moans; I noted even the streaks of gray in the long
tresses, as I lay helpless in dumb, bewildered horror.

"Again!" she said hoarsely, as the sounds died away into
indistinct murmurs, and advancing a step she tapped sharply with a
crutch on the cedar wainscot; then again louder and more purposeful
rose the wild beseeching voice; this time the words were English.

"Mercy, have mercy! not on me, but on my child, my little one; she
never harmed you. She is dying--she is dying here in darkness; let me
but see her face once more. Death is very near, nothing can save her
now; but grant one ray of light, and I will pray that you may be
forgiven, if forgiveness there be for such as you."

"What, you kneel at last! Kneel to Gerda, and kneel in vain. A ray
of light; Not if you could pay for it in diamonds. You are mine!
Shriek and call as you will, no other ears can hear. Die together.
You are mine to torture as I will; mine, mine, mine!" and again an
awful laugh rang through the room. At the instant she turned. O the
face of malign horror that met my gaze! The green eyes flamed, and
with something like the snarl of a savage beast she sprang toward me;
that hideous face almost touched mine; the grasp of the skinny
jeweled hand was all but on me; then--I suppose I fainted.

For weeks I lay in brain fever, in mental horror and weariness so
intent, that even now I do not like to let my mind dwell on it. Even
when the crisis was safely past I was slow to rally; my mind was
utterly unstrung. I lived in a world of shadows. And so winter wore
by, and brought us to the fair spring morning when at last I stood by
Robert's side in the old church, a cold, passive, almost unwilling
bride. I cared neither to refuse nor consent to anything that was
suggested; so Robert and Archie decided for me, and I allowed them to
do with me as they would, while I brooded silently and ceaselessly on
the memory of that terrible night. To my husband I told all one
morning in a sunny Bavarian valley, and my weak, frightened mind drew
strength and peace from his; by degrees the haunting horror wore
away, and when we came home for a happy reason nearly two years
afterward, I was as strong and blithe as in my girlhood. I had
learned to believe that it had all been, not the cause, but the
commencement of my fever. I was to be undeceived.

Our little daughter had come to us in the time of roses; and now
Christmas was with us, our first Christmas at home, and the house was
full of guests. It was a delicious old-fashioned Yule; plenty of
skating and outdoor fun, and no lack of brightness indoors. Toward
New Year a heavy fall of snow set in which kept us all prisoners; but
even then the days flew merrily, and somebody suggested tableaux for
the evenings. Robert was elected manager; there was a debate and
selection of subjects, and then came the puzzle of where, at such
short notice, we could procure the dresses required. My husband
advised a raid on some mysterious oaken chests which he knew had been
for years stowed away in a turret-room. He remembered having, when a
boy, seen the housekeeper inspecting them, and their contents had
left a hazy impression of old stand-alone brocades, gold tissues,
sacques, hoops, and hoods, the very mention of which put us in a
state of wild excitement. Mrs. Moultrie was summoned, looked duly
horrified at the desecration of what to her were relics most sacred;
but seeing it was inevitable, she marshaled the way, a protest in
every rustle and fold of her stiff silk dress.

"What a charming old place," was the exclamation with variations
as we entered the long oak-joisted room, at the further end of which
stood in goodly array the chests whose contents we coveted. Bristling
with unspoken disapproval, poor Mrs. Moultrie unlocked one after
another, and then asked permission to retire, leaving us unchecked to
"cry havoc." In a moment the floor was covered with piles of silks
and velvets.

"Meg," cried little Janet Crawford, dancing up to me, "isn't it a
good thing to live in the age of tulle and summer silks? Fancy being
imprisoned for life in a fortress like this!" holding up a thick
crimson and gold brocade, whale-boned and buckramed at all points. It
was thrown aside, and she half lost herself in another chest and was
silent. Then--"Look, Major Fraudel This is the very thing for you--a
true astrologer's robe, all black velvet and golden stars. If it were
but long enough; it just fits me."

I turned and saw--the pretty slight figure, the innocent girlish
face dressed in the robe of black and gold, identical in shape,
pattern and material with what I too well remembered. With a wild cry
I hid my face and cowered away.

"Take it off! O, Janet--Robert--take it from her!"

Every one turned wondering. In an instant my husband saw, and
catching up the cause of my terror, flung it hastily into the chest
again, and lowered the lid. Janet looked half offended, but the cloud
passed in an instant when I kissed her, apologizing as well as I
could. Rob laughed at us both, and voted an adjournment to a warmer
room, where we could have the chests brought to us to ransack at
leisure. Before going down, Janet and I went into a small anteroom to
examine some old pictures which leaned against the wall.

"This is just the thing, Jennie, to frame the tableaux," I said,
pointing to an immense frame, at least twelve feet square. "There is
a picture in it," I added, pulling back the dusty folds of a heavy
curtain which fell before it.

"That can be easily removed," said my husband, who had followed
us.

With his assistance we drew the curtain quite away, and in the now
fast waning light could just discern the figure of a girl in white
against a dark background. Robert rang for a lamp, and when it came
we turned with much curiosity to examine the painting, as to the
subject of which we had been making odd merry guesses while we
waited. The girl was young, almost childish--very lovely, but, oh,
how sad! Great tears stood in the innocent eyes and on the round
young cheeks, and her hands were clasped tenderly around the arms of
a man who was bending toward her, and, did I dream?--no, there in
hateful distinctness was the hideous woman of the Cedar Closet--the
same in every distorted line, even to the starred dress and golden
circlet. The swarthy hues of the dress and face had at first caused
us to overlook her. The same wicked eyes seemed to glare into mine.
After one wild bound my heart seemed to stop its beating, and I knew
no more. When I recovered from a long, deep swoon, great lassitude
and intense nervous excitement followed; my illness broke up the
party, and for months I was an invalid. When again Robert's love and
patience had won me back to my old health and happiness, he told me
all the truth, so far as it had been preserved in old records of the
family.

It was in the sixteenth century that the reigning lady of Draye
Court was a weird, deformed woman, whose stunted body, hideous face,
and a temper which taught her to hate and vilify everything good and
beautiful for the contrast offered to herself, made her universally
feared and disliked. One talent only she possessed; it was for music;
but so wild and strange were the strains she drew from the many
instruments of which she was mistress, that the gift only intensified
the dread with which she was regarded. Her father had died before her
birth; her mother did not survive it; near relatives she had none;
she had lived her lonely, loveless life from youth to middle age.
When a young girl came to the Court, no one knew more than that she
was a poor relation. The dark woman seemed to look more kindly on
this young cousin than on any one that had hitherto crossed her
somber path, and indeed so great was the charm which Marian's
goodness, beauty and innocent gayety exercised on every one that the
servants ceased to marvel at her having gained the favor of their
gloomy mistress. The girl seemed to feel a kind of wondering, pitying
affection for the unhappy woman; she looked on her through an
atmosphere created by her own sunny nature, and for a time all went
well. When Marian had been at the Court for a year, a foreign
musician appeared on the scene. He was a Spaniard, and had been
engaged by Lady Draye to build for her an organ said to be of
fabulous power and sweetness. Through long bright summer days he and
his employer were shut up together in the music-room--he busy in the
construction of the wonderful instrument, she aiding and watching his
work. These days were spent by Marian in various ways--pleasant
idleness and pleasant work, long canters on her chestnut pony, dreamy
mornings by the brook with rod and line, or in the village near,
where she found a welcome everywhere. She played with the children,
nursed the babies, helped the mothers in a thousand pretty ways,
gossiped with old people, brightening the day for everybody with whom
she came in contact. Then in the evening she sat with Lady Draye and
the Spaniard in the saloon talking in that soft foreign tongue which
they generally used. But this was but the music between the acts; the
terrible drama was coming. The motive was of course the same as that
of every life drama which has been played out from the old, old days
when the curtain rose upon the garden scene of Paradise. Philip and
Marian loved each other, and having told their happy secret to each
other, they, as in duty bound, took it to their patroness. They found
her in the music room. Whether the glimpses she caught of a beautiful
world from which she was shut out maddened her, or whether she, too,
loved the foreigner, was never certainly known; but through the
closed door passionate words were heard, and very soon Philip came
out alone, and left the house without a farewell to any in it. When
the servants did at last venture to enter, they found Marian lifeless
on the floor, Lady Draye standing over her with crutch uplifted, and
blood flowing from a wound in the girl's forehead. They carried her
away and nursed her tenderly; their mistress locked the door as they
left, and all night long remained alone in darkness. The music which
came out without pause on the still night air was weird and wicked
beyond any strains which had ever before flowed even from beneath her
fingers; it ceased with morning light; and as the day wore on it was
found that Marian had fled during the night, and that Philip's organ
had sounded its last strain--Lady Draye had shattered and silenced it
forever. She never seemed to notice Marian's absence and no one dared
to mention her name. Nothing was ever known certainly of her fate; it
was supposed that she had joined her lover.

Years passed, and with each Lady Draye's temper grew fiercer and
more malevolent. She never quitted her room unless on the anniversary
of that day and night, when the tapping of her crutch and high-heeled
shoes was heard for hours as she walked up and down the music-room,
which was never entered save for this yearly vigil. The tenth
anniversary came round, and this time the vigil was not unshared. The
servants distinctly heard the sound of a man's voice mingling in
earnest conversation with her shrill tones; they listened long, and
at last one of the boldest ventured to look in, himself unseen. He
saw a worn, traveled-stained man; dusty, foot-sore, poorly dressed,
he still at once recognized the handsome, gay Philip of ten years
ago. He held in his arms a little sleeping girl; her long curls, so
like poor Marian's, strayed over his shoulder. He seemed to be
pleading in that strange musical tongue for the little one; for as he
spoke he lifted, O, so tenderly, the cloak which partly concealed
her, and showed the little face, which he doubtless thought might
plead for itself. The woman, with a furious gesture, raised her
crutch to strike the child; he stepped quickly backward, stooped to
kiss the little girl, then, without a word, turned to go. Lady Draye
called on him to return with an imperious gesture, spoke a few words,
to which he seemed to listen gratefully, and together they left the
house by the window which opened on the terrace. The servants
followed them, and found she led the way to the parsonage, which was
at the time unoccupied. It was said that he was in some political
danger as well as in deep poverty, and that she had hidden him here
until she could help him to a better asylum. It was certain that for
many nights she went to the parsonage and returned before dawn,
thinking herself unseen. But one morning she did not come home; her
people consulted together; her relenting toward Philip had made them
feel more kindly toward her than ever before; they sought her at the
parsonage and found her lying across its threshold dead, a vial
clasped in her rigid fingers. There was no sign of the late presence
of Philip and his child; it was believed she had sped them on their
way before she killed herself. They laid her in a suicide's grave.
For more than fifty years after the parsonage was shut up. Though it
had been again inhabited no one had ever been terrified by the
specter I had seen; probably the Cedar Closet had never before been
used as a bedroom.

Robert decided on having the wing containing the haunted room
pulled down and rebuilt, and in doing so the truth of my story gained
a horrible confirmation. When the wainscot of the Cedar Closet was
removed a recess was discovered in the massive old wall, and in this
lay moldering fragments of the skeletons of a man and child!

There could be but one conclusion drawn, the wicked woman had
imprisoned them there under pretense of hiding and helping them; and
once they were completely at her mercy, had come night after night
with unimaginable cruelty to gloat over their agony, and, when that
long anguish was ended, ended her odious life by a suicide's death.
We could learn nothing of the mysterious painting. Philip was an
artist, and it may have been his work. We had it destroyed, so that
no record of the terrible story might remain. I have no more to add,
save that but for those dark days left by Lady Draye as a legacy of
fear and horror, I should never have known so well the treasure I
hold in the tender, unwearying, faithful love of my husband--known
the blessing that every sorrow carries in its heart, that

"Every cloud that spreads above
And veileth love, itself is love."

Chin Chin Kobokama

Once there was a little girl who was very pretty, but also very
lazy. Her parents were rich, and had a great many servants; and these
servants were very fond of the little girl, and did everything for
her which she ought to have been able to do for herself. Perhaps this
was what made her so lazy. When she grew up into a beautiful woman,
she still remained lazy; but as the servants always dressed and
undressed her, and arranged her hair, she looked very charming, and
nobody thought about her faults.

At last she was married to a brave warrior, and went away with him
to live in another house where there were but few servants. She was
sorry not to have as many servants as she had had at home, because
she was obliged to do several things for herself, which other folks
had always done for her. It was such trouble to her to dress herself,
and take care of her own clothes, and keep herself looking neat and
pretty to please her husband. But as he was a warrior, and often had
to be far away from home with the army, she could sometimes be just
as lazy as she wished. Her husband's parents were very old and
good-natured, and never scolded her.

Well, one night while her hushand was away with the army, she was
awakened by queer little noises in her room. By the light of a big
paper-lantern she could see very well; and she saw strange things.
What?

Hundreds of little men, dressed just like Japanese warriors, but
only about one inch high, were dancing all around her pillow. They
wore the same kind of dress her husband wore on
holidays,--(Kamishimo, a long robe with square shoulders),--and their
hair was tied up in knots, and each wore two tiny swords. They all
looked at her as they danced, and laughed, and they all sang the same
song, over and over again,--

"Chin-chin Kobakama.

Yomo fukasoro,--

Oshizumare, Hime-gimi!--

Ya ton ton!"--

Which meant:--"We are the Chin-chin Kobakama:--he hour is
late;--Sleep, honorable noble darling!"

The words seemed very polite; but she soon saw that the little men
were only making cruel fun of her. They also made ugly faces at
her.

She tried to catch some of them; but they jumped about so quickly
that she could not. Then she tried to drive them away; but they would
not go, and they never stopped singing "Chin-chin Kobakama, ... ."
and laughing at her. Then she knew they were little fairies, and
became so frightened that she could not even cry out. They danced
around her until morning;--then they all vanished suddenly.

She was ashamed to tell anybody what had happened--because, as she
was the wife of a warrior, she did not wish anybody to know how
frightened she had been.

Next night, again the little men came and danced, and they came
also the night after that, and every night--always at the same hour,
which the old Japanese used to call the "Hour of the Ox:" that is,
about two o'clock in the morning by our time. At last she became very
sick, through want of sleep and through fright. But the little men
would not leave her alone.

When her husband came back home, he was very sorry to find her
sick in bed. At first she was afraid to tell him what had made her
ill, for fear that he would laugh at her. But he was so kind, and
coaxed her so gently, hat after a while she told him what happened
every night.

He did not laugh at her at all, but looked very serious for a
time. Then he asked:--"At what time do they come?" She
ansvered:--"Always at the same hour--the 'Hour of the Ox."

"Very well," said her husband,--"to-night I shall hide and watch
for them. Do not be frightened."

So that night the warrior hid himself in a closet in the sleeping
room, and kept watch through a chink between the sliding doors.

He waited and watched until the "Hour of the Ox." Then, all at
once, the little men came up through the mats, and began their dance
and their song:--

"Chin-chin

Kobakama.

Yomo fuk

Soro......"

They looked so queer, and danced in such a funny way, that the
warrior could scarcely keep from laughing. But he saw his young
wife's frightened face; and then remembering that nearly all Japanese
ghosts and goblins are afraid of a sword, he drew his blade, and
rushed out of the closet, and struck at the little dancers.
Immediately they all turned into--what do you think?

Toothpicks!

There were no more little warriors--only a lot of old toothpicks
scattered over the mats.

The young wife had been too lazy to put her toothpicks away
properly; and every day, after having used a new toothpick, she would
stick it down between the mats on the floor, to get rid of it. So the
little fairies who take care of the floor-mats became angry with her,
and tormented her.

Her mother one night sat up to watch, and saw them, and struck at
them,--and they all turned into plumstones! So the naughtiness of
that little girl was found out. After that she became a very good
girl indeed.

---

There is also a story told about a lazy little girl, who used to
eat plums, and afterward hide the plum-stones between the flor-mats.
For a long time she was able to do this without being found out. But
at last the fairies got angry and punished her.

For every night, tiny, tiny women--all wearing bright red robes
with very long sleves,--rose up from the floor at the same hour, and
danced, and made faces at her and prevented her from sleeping.

Her husband scolded her, and she was so ashamed that she did not
know what to do. A servant was called, and the toothpicks were taken
away and burned. After that the little men never came back again.